


Nate, Bridezilla, and the Three Hook-Ups

by beetle



Series: Other Rooms [2]
Category: Cable and Deadpool, Deadpool (2016), Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel, Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Amazing Spider-Man (Movies - Webb)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Bobpinder, But he still loves Nate, Cablepool - Freeform, Deadpool will NEVER not want Spidey, Drunk Dopinder, Drunk Sex, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Established Relationship, Exhibitionism, F/F, F/M, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Hook-Up, M/M, Making Love, Making Out, Marijuana, Mini-Quiches, Nate is Patient, Nathan Summers/Peter Parker/Wade Wilson UST, Offer of Double Anal Penetration, Peter Parker/Wade Wilson UST, Peter's picky but kind of a slut too, Princess Di's Wedding Dress, WADE WEARING A REPLICA OF PRINCESS DI'S WEDDING DRESS!, Wade is insane, Wedding Night, Wedding Reception, mentions of drug use, stoners
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-04
Updated: 2016-09-04
Packaged: 2018-08-12 23:13:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7952923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wade and Nate’s wedding reception. Hook-ups happen; Nate can’t dance, but Wade loves him, anyway; and sometimes studying the blueprints for the reception hall can backfire . . . I don’t even know. But enjoy, guys :-)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nate, Bridezilla, and the Three Hook-Ups

**Author's Note:**

  * For [badskippy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/badskippy/gifts).



> Notes/Warnings: AU. WAY more A than it is U. Probably spoilers? But this is so crack, I doubt the uninitiated will even notice. And I’m counting myself among the uninitiated. Also, FULL CREDIT to Badskippy for Wade's comments in the hilarious, parenthetical passage about Wade’s . . . er, wedding outfit. And also: for helping me describe it.

“This . . . this is fucking _bullshit_!”

 

Weasel and Blind Al watched—well, one of them did—Wade pace up and down the bride’s changing room, his frilly, silk, off-the-shoulder, virginal-white, Princess Di wedding dress-replica clinging to muscular curves and trailing after him like a faithful hound. In his right hand was a Spider-Man stress ball. In his left was a cordless phone, from which the faint sound of a dial tone could be heard.

 

Wade paused in his incessant pacing to frown down at the cordless so hard, it showed up even through the—silk, white and red—matching mask he wore for his Special Day. Weasel and Blind Al “shared” a “glance” as a loud crunching sound filled the room for a few seconds.

 

Then Wade was dropping the stress ball and the crushed remains of the cordless on the carpeted floor and staring down at them, white lenses narrowed in their red patches. Weasel, king of cutting edge weapons and armor, _still_ hadn’t figured out how the fuck Wade _did_ that shit. Nano-tech? Truly eerie muscle-control? Magic, maybe?

 

“Bullshit,” Wade huffed, breathing deep and hard. Weasel rolled his eyes and Blind Al patted his hand.

 

“Your turn, Tiger,” she murmured serenely, and Weasel sighed. She was right. When divvying up who handled Wade before and after the craziness that was his Special Day, Weasel’d thought _Al_ had drawn the short straw, because— _c’mon_ . . . Wade, _just before_ his wedding would have to be _more_ batshit than Wade _after_ the blessed event, right? _Right_?

 

Nah . . . kinda wrong.

 

Girding his loins, Weasel stood up—an iffy bet in the changing room’s tar-pit couch—and carefully approached a now-growling Wade. “Hey, buddy . . . what’s up?” he asked, wary of ending up like the poor cordless phone because, let’s face it, Wade Wilson had anger-management issues that were vast and breath-taking.

 

But instead of answering with either words or fists, Wade simply stood there panting, his absolutely _ripped_ chest and broad shoulders heaving so hard, the pretty white dress was probably in danger of splitting open at the seams. . . .

 

Then Wade’s shoulders sagged and he groaned, burying his face in his hands. A few seconds later it became painfully obvious that Wade was . . . _weeping_. . . .

 

Horrified, Weasel glanced back at Al, who shrugged, as if she could feel his gaze. “Your turn,” she said again, helpfully. Weasel rolled his eyes. If only she’d been that willing to keep track of whose _turn_ it was that time they’d banged.

 

But, whatever.

 

“Listen, Wade, amigo,” Weasel began, reaching a tentative hand out and settling it on Wade’s rough, scarred shoulder. Though Wade’s almost scaly skin felt markedly softer than usual. Maybe he was using some new kind of lotion. It was good stuff, if he was, and Weasel made a mental note to find out the brand. “What’s with the water-works? Unless, like, they’re tears of joy, since you married the man of your dreams, right? Star-crossed lovers, overcoming all odds, yadda-yadda . . . soon to be starting a boring new life in lovely Providence . . . _it’s Miller-time_ , right?”

 

Wade sniffled soggily, turning suddenly and looping big, ridiculous-strong arms around Weasel’s neck, pulling him into a spine-realigning embrace.

 

“Oh, Jack,” he whimpered into Weasel’s shoulder. “My sweet, _simple_ Jack. . . .”

 

“Hey!” Weasel protested, offended even as he wrapped hesitant arms around Wade’s back. “I’m not _sweet_!”

 

“You’ve never been a _bridesmaid_ , let alone a _bride_ ,” Wade wibbled between dramatic sobs. “Never had such a blessed, _unbearable_ onus thrust upon _fragile_ shoulders.”

 

“Uh. . . .”

 

“Never had to juggle a husband, two children, and a _beautiful_ wedding reception . . . which has been incredibly _fucked up_ by a wedding planner who couldn’t plan her way out of an open doorway!” Wade was growling again, in between his sobs. Weasel rolled his eyes and patted Wade’s back till the other man calmed down a bit.

 

“Listen, nothing’s fucked up, man. Everything’s copacetic. I mean, we’ve still got the reception hall, right?”

 

“Yeah.” Wade sniffled miserably.

 

“And it’s still an open bar, right? And free food?”

 

“Of course.”

 

Weasel relaxed. Even smiled a bit. “Then what’s the problem?”

 

Wade leaned back, the white lenses of his mask slightly . . . _red_ , now.

 

 _Seriously, how the_ fuck?! Weasel wondered, brows furrowing as he squinted into Wade’s face and leaned a little closer. Wade leaned back warily.

 

“Um,” he said, seeming chagrined. “Listen, Jack—I’m flattered. And I won’t lie and say the idea of kissing you never crossed my mind _back in the day_ —you’re all cute and clueless, like a mentally-challenged Teddy bear—but—”

 

“What? _Ew_ , no!” Pulling a face, Weasel shook his head and smacked Wade upside his. “No kissing! I was just . . . trying to get a closer look at your _lenses_ , douche-canoe!”

 

“Uh-huh. _My lenses_. Riiight.” Wade’s right lens seemed to wink—because Weasel’s life just wasn’t weird enough—and he cupped Weasel’s cheek in his big, silk-gloved hand. “Alas, that particular bit of subtext will have to _remain_ _subtext,_ my little chimichanga. _This_ pretty, pansexual palomino is somebody’s _wifey_ , now, and totes off the market.”

 

“Gee, that’s too bad,” Weasel said flatly. “How will I ever cope?”

 

“Yeah, I—I just dunno, buddy. We were just . . . two ships that passed in the night, and all that jazz. The road not taken, y'know?” Wade nodded sagely, his hand falling almost sadly away from Weasel’s face. “Anyway, the reception’s still on, of course. But the planner just called me to ask if it was okay if, instead of pigs-in-a-blanket, we have these little mini-quiche things, instead!”

 

Weasel blinked, when no more “problem” was forthcoming. “Uh-huh. Okay. And?”

 

“ _No_! _Not_ okay!” Wade was growling again. “I _specifically_ told her I wanted those pigs-in-a-blanket because _Nate_ likes ‘em, and Ellie and Hope like ‘em, too. And this was _their_ day as much as it was mine . . . okay, except, not _really_ —but still! I was willing to grant some concessions, here and there! I am _very_ magnanimous! Hence: pigs-in-a-mother-fucking- _blanket_!”

 

“Right,” Weasel said, as if he even had _any_ clue. “So . . . they did the mini-quiches instead? And you’re, uh, pretty tight about that, I’m guessing.”

 

“Yes!” Weasel could swear he heard Wade’s teeth grinding. “And the damn planner considers it an _upgrade_! Said it was no extra charge, even!”

 

“Well . . . I mean, that’s _something_ , at least. And, hey! The booze is still free,” Weasel added helpfully. Only for Wade’s lenses to . . . _tremble_ . . . as if. . . . “Oh, fuck, _no_ , don’t start _crying_ aga—”

 

Wade collapsed in Weasel’s arms, sobbing hysterically.

 

“Ah, _fuck_ ,” Weasel muttered, wrapping his arms around Wade again with a sigh. At least the other man smelled really _good_ —that new lotion he was using was off the _chain_ —not that he usually smelled _bad_. But even Weasel wasn’t particularly fond of the combined scents of taco-meat, metal, and gunpowder.

 

“There, there,” Weasel said awkwardly, patting Wade’s back as he shook and wept, wept and shook. Then mumbled an apology for the tears. Something about his hormones being all out of whack, recently. Weasel snorted and made a lame attempt to lighten the atmosphere. “Hey, maybe Nate got ya pregnant!”

 

Admittedly, it wasn’t the most sensitive or wise thing to say. But Weasel didn’t think it warranted Wade picking him up by the _throat_ —incidentally choking him out, like it was little Jacky Hammer’s prom night, _all over again_ —and shaking him like a terrier would a rat.

 

“ _Not_ funny, Weas,” Wade gritted out, those lenses narrowed again. “I’ve been on birth control for, like, the past _six months_. Nate and I agreed we are _not_ ready for another kid! _Do not_ jinx us, motherfucker!”

 

“Blaaaagh!” Weasel choked out. If he could’ve spoken, he’d have said something along the lines of maybe the birth control was screwing with Wade’s hormones/brain chemistry . . . and that, few exceptions aside, _guys_ _usually_ _didn’t_ get pregnant no matter how virile their time-traveling, sorta-cyborg husbands were. . . .

 

But all that came out was another desperate: “Blaaaaagh!”

 

Then, just as the edges of his vision began to grey out, Weasel found himself sprawled on the floor, gasping for air and glaring up at Wade, who towered above him in his silk and frills frock.

 

An _exact replica of Princess Di’s dress_ , it was. Except for the slit up the side to _show some leg_ and the extra-low décolletage to _maximize_ Wade’s . . . _cleavage_.

 

(“ _Seriously_ , dude?” Weasel had asked as Wade preened at the designer’s after the final fitting. In the seat next to him, Blind Al had long-since nodded off. Wade, however, wide awake and giddy, had spun around, eyeing himself in the many mirrors with great satisfaction.

 

“ _Totes_ serious, Weas. If Di-Di had shown _more_ leg and cleavage, bitch _mighta_ kept her man in check, is all I’m sayin’.” Wade had snapped his fingers like the sassy, strong black woman he sometimes claimed he was, then shifted the yards of fabric and stuck his leg out.

 

“Ugh. Too soon,” Blind Al had snorted, still half-asleep and Weasel had rolled his eyes, wishing for the day to be over, already, so he could smoke a bowl, jerk off to the Food Network, then fall asleep to lasagna-porn.)

 

“Although,” Wade mused almost wistfully, now, one index finger tapping his lower lip. “Babies _are_ adorable. And Nate probably _would_ like a son to carry on the Summers name . . . a cute little tyke with Daddy’s telekinesis and _Mommy’s_ killer ass.”

 

Weasel sat up, still panting, and adjusted his glasses. “Yuh-huh. That’d be cool, too. Whatever path you choose, I’m sure you’ll all be very happy?” he said hopefully, one hand coming up to cover his throat just in case.

 

But Wade was squealing and picking Weasel up by the arm, with one hand, then pulling him into another hug.

 

“You’re a _good_ friend, Jack Hammer,” he whispered in Weasel’s ear, his voice hitching with emotion. “I’m _so_ glad I made you my maid of honor . . . even if you refused to wear the nice dress I had made specially for you.”

 

Weasel rolled his eyes and patted Wade on the back. “Sorry, Wilson, fuschia and chartreuse just aren’t my colors.”

 

“We’ll have to agree to disagree, Weas. And it’s _Summers-Wilson_ , now,” Wade reminded him, thoughtfully, rather bemusedly. “Weird, huh? I _never_ thought this day’d come.”

 

“Well, no one deserves it more than you, bud. Be happy.” Weasel found _himself_ sniffling . . . then he snorted and pounded Wade’s back manfully. “And, uh, hey . . . better _you_ than _me_.”

 

“I heard _that_ ,” Al agreed from the couch, and when Weasel and Wade glanced over at her, the normally unflappable woman was wiping at her face, under the sunglasses. Then she _almost_ smiled, seeming to gaze directly at Wade. “ _Mazel tov_ . . . dumbass.”

 

#

 

“They make a most striking couple, do they not?” someone asked, sitting at the otherwise empty table where Bob was brooding over a virgin daiquiri.

 

Bob looked up from his grousing, his eyes automatically going to the dance floor, where most of the reception, including the happy newlyweds were . . . dancing.

 

Well, _Mr. Wilson_ was dancing—something that looked like a cross between the Macarena and the Lambada—and _Mr. Summers_ was . . . shuffling along awkwardly, not at all with the beat. But at least he looked handsome in his custom-made tux. And Mr. Wilson was, as always, quite eye-catching in his wedding dress.

 

Bob sighed. “Yes. Very striking. But then, happiness is _always_ striking in a world so full of the exact opposite,” he noted glumly, as Mr. Summers finally gave up on trying to keep up with the beat _or_ Mr. Wilson, shrugging his massive shoulders and looking very put out. But Mr. Wilson merely laughed and wrapped his arms around Mr. Summers’ neck then leaned their foreheads together. Mr. Summers actually _smiled_ , reaching up to push Mr. Wilson’s mask up to his nose and kiss him tenderly. As if Mr. Wilson was the only person in his world.

 

As if Mr. Wilson _was_ his world. . . .

 

 _I know_ that _feeling pretty well_ , Bob thought morosely. Then, blinking, he turned back to his daiquiri with another sigh. He plucked at the jaunty little umbrella, then mustered up a smile before looking up at the only other person sitting at his table. Then he was blinking again, looking into kind, round dark-brown eyes in a face the color of sun-bleached mahogany . . . and topped by somewhat messy, straight black hair. Those _eyes_ seemed vaguely familiar, but then, Bob had met a lot of people through Mr. Wilson—who certainly had the common-touch—and had quite lost track of individual faces.

 

Though it certainly seemed as if he’d have remembered _this_ face, even though it _wasn’t_ especially memorable . . . except for the innate kindness shining out of those dark eyes and the sweetness of that smile.

 

In their line of work, Bob and Mr. Wilson rarely ran into kind or sweet _anything_.

 

“A very striking couple,” Bob repeated, lifting his glass to the other in a silent toast. The smiling young man raised his own glass—champagne—and clinked it gently with Bob’s. They each took a sip of their beverages and regarded each other in wary and curious silence, respectively.

 

“So,” Bob finally said, when the silence had become a bit . . . _too_ silent, but for the DJ—who was eighty if he was a day—pumping out _The Humpty Dance_ at even louder levels than the previous song, (which, weirdly enough, had been about the origins of _peaches_. Strange—inaccurate—but catchy). Bob raised his voice to be heard. “How do you, uh, know the happy couple?”

 

The other man smiled that sweet smile again, blushing just enough that it showed up on his dark skin. “I know Mr. Pool from . . . work.”

 

Bob’s brows lifted, though it probably wasn’t visible, what with his mask and all. “ _You’re_ a merc?”

 

“What? Oh, no! No-no-no-no-no!” the other man hurried to deny, laughing a little. “I’m a cabdriver.”

 

“Oh.” Bob’s brow furrowed as he made a connection. “ _Oh_ , _you’re_ Dopinder, right?”

 

The other man looked pleasantly surprised. “Mr. Pool has . . . mentioned me?”

 

“He sure has! Wow, it’s a pleasure to finally _meet_ you! He has nothing but nice things to say about you!” Bob offered his hand across the table. Dopinder reached for it, then drew his hand back, standing up to move to the seat immediately next to Bob’s, sitting and taking the offered hand. His eyes were dark, dancing, and quite tipsy.

 

“I was surprised and touched to be invited to his wedding! I thought he was only inviting me because I’d invited him to mine. Unfortunately he couldn’t make it, but he sent a lovely gift,” Dopinder admitted, taking another sip of his champagne. Bob’s smile faltered from faint disappointment.

 

“Oh, you’re, uh . . . you’re married?”

 

Dopinder’s brows shot up. “Oh! No-no-no-no-no!” he laughed, sounding a bit embarrassed. “No, I’m not—I mean, there was a _wedding_ . . . but my fiancée, Gita, ran off with my cousin, Bandu, and . . . agh! Such a mess!”

 

“Wow—oh, I’m . . . so _sorry_ ,” Bob fumbled, blushing and glad the mask hid it. But Dopinder merely laughed again.

 

“No need to be . . . it was an arranged marriage. And though she was very beautiful, we . . . did not suit each other. _And_ she _was_ in love with Bandu, after all, so. . . .” Dopinder shrugged, his smile daffy and adorable. “I do not think our marriage would have worked out. For many reasons, actually.”

 

“I see,” Bob mumbled, though he really didn’t. It just seemed like the thing to say. “Well, at least you both realized before you took the plunge.”

 

“That is true.”

 

Another silence spun out between them and Bob went back to gazing into the depths of his daiquiri. Then Dopinder laughed and touched the back of Bob’s hand with feather-light fingers. Bob shivered and looked up, straight into that sweet smile and those kind, curious eyes.

 

“It seems you have me at a disadvantage,” Dopinder said, his fingers sliding across the back of Bob’s hand, down his fingers, then—sadly—away. “You know _my_ name, but I’m afraid I do not know yours.”

 

“Uh.” Bob blushed, his brain giving several false starts before he remembered what his name was. “I’m, uh, Bob. My name’s Bob.”

 

“Bob,” Dopinder repeated wonderingly, as if he’d never heard such a name before. And it did, in fact, sound fresh and new in his mouth. Bob found himself smiling _for real_ for the first time in . . . maybe months. “And how do _you_ know the happy couple, Mr. Bob?”

 

“Oh, I’m—Mr. Wilson’s assistant. Sorta. And it’s just _Bob,_ by the way. _Mr_. _Bob_ was my Dad.”

 

Dopinder laughed again. He had a nice one—more a giggle than a laugh, and as sweet as his smile. “Alright. _Bob_. Well, it is very nice to meet you. Any friend of Mr. Pool’s is, I hope, a friend of mine.”

 

“Likewise,” Bob agreed. Then he and Dopinder sat there smiling at each other for a while, till the other man flushed and looked down, biting his lip.

 

“So,” he said, dragging the word out a bit, his dark eyes darting briefly up to Bob’s masked face before locking back onto his half-empty glass of champagne. “Are _you_ a m-mercenary, too?”

 

“ _Me_? Oh, Heavens, _no_!” Bob chuckled self-deprecatingly. “I was—am— _was_ an agent with, uh . . . an organization that Mr. Wilson had . . . dealings with. Eventually I, uh, sorta left that organization? Um, well, at least I figure not showing up for work for, like, several years, despite not giving my two weeks’ notice, means I left. And I’ve, um, been with Mr. Wilson ever since! Helping out however I can. Doing paperwork. Inventory. Babysitting. Cleaning. More babysitting.”

 

“Ah.” Dopinder’s shining eyes were on Bob’s face again, wondering and playful. “Is he a good boss, Mr. Pool?”

 

“Oh, Mr. Wilson’s the _best_!” Bob gushed, then blushed, then shook his head. “Well . . . yeah, he’s got a temper. And he can be really, um . . . kind of a _diva_. And he and Mr. Summers are _always_ either fighting or . . . _making up_. But it’s been a rollercoaster ride I wouldn’t trade for the world.”

 

“Wow, that sounds . . . really great,” Dopinder said wistfully, leaning on his hand and sipping more champagne as he watched Mr. Wilson and Mr. Summers doing the Humpty Dance. Well, _Mr_. _Wilson_ was doing the Humpty Dance. _Mr. Summers_ was . . . perhaps having some sort of seizure? Marginally to the beat of the song?

 

Bob snorted and smiled. The sound pulled Dopinder’s attention back to him and the other man smiled, too, and it just . . . it was such a _nice_ smile. . . .

 

“I’ll bet you have a wonderful smile,” Dopinder said, like some sort of strange telepathy, sounding wistful once more. Then his eyes widened and he blushed. “I mean, I . . . you seem _very nice_ . . . I can’t imagine that your smile doesn’t match your personality.”

 

This last bit was mumbled into Dopinder’s glass, those dark eyes darting everywhere but at Bob.

 

“I . . . oh,” Bob mumbled, blushing, too. Then he shrugged. “I . . . my mom always said I had a nice smile. But, you know . . . moms _have_ to say that.” Shrugging and gulping a mouthful of his now tasteless daiquiri, Bob forged ahead bravely. “ _You_ , uh . . . _your_ smile is . . . really . . . um. It’s . . . it’s like _sunshine_ . . . just very bright and warm. And b-beautiful.”

 

Those eyes widened as they met Bob’s lenses and Dopinder leaned closer. He smelled like flowers, champagne, and, very faintly, new car-scent.

 

“Would it—that is, if you wouldn’t _mind_ . . . maybe you could,” Dopinder stammered hesitantly, biting his bottom lip. Bob swallowed and tugged on the suddenly tight collar of his shirt. (Unlike Mr. Summers’ tux, _Bob’s_ tux—powder-blue—was just a rental, not custom-made.) Dopinder smiled anxiously, the tip of his tongue coming out to swipe his lips. “I would _very_ _much_ like to see your face, Bob.”

 

Bob went pale. “I . . . I haven’t, uh, unmasked for anyone in . . . years,” he said quietly, flustered and wary. During the last few months of their marriage, he hadn’t even bothered unmasking for Gail. And she hadn’t even seemed to care. _No one_ had, really. Not even his few remaining family members. No one missed Bob’s face enough to want to _see_ it. “Why do you want to see my _face_?”

 

Dopinder’s smile widened, and even though it was a little dopey, it really _was_ like sunshine. “Because it seems like it would be awkward for me to _k-kiss you_ while you are wearing a mask, Bob.”

 

“ _Oh_ ,” Bob breathed softly, shocked and somewhat numb. He glanced back at the dance floor. At Mr. Wilson and Mr. Summers, who were in each other’s arms and swaying to _Girl You Got What I Need_. Mr. Wilson was gazing up into Mr. Summers’ eyes and Mr. Summers was gazing down into Mr. Wilson’s. The former’s huge hands were resting on Mr. Wilson’s waist and the latter’s were clenched possessively on Mr. Summers’ behind. Nearby, to their left, Ellie Wilson was leading her new sister, Hope—still just a toddler, barely coordinated enough to walk—in a shambles of a waltz. Both girls were giggling and occasionally bumping into their fathers’ legs.

 

They really were a striking _family_.

 

 _There’s no room for me_ , Bob finally told himself, accepting that fact with surprisingly painless resignation. _That’s_ their _story, and it’s not my place to insert myself in it. Not anymore. It’s time to find my_ own _story and play a starring role, for once_.

 

“. . . presumptuous of me. Perhaps it is all this lovely champagne—of which I’ve clearly had more than my share—making me so bold. I apologize, Mr. Bob—” Dopinder was saying glumly, when Bob returned his attention to his embarrassed table-mate. Dopinder was starting to stand and avoiding Bob’s eyes. “Sorry,” he added in a miserable mumble.

 

Before the other man could gain his feet, Bob quickly reached out and covered Dopinder’s hand with his own. “Wait!” he said, and Dopinder froze, blinking at Bob warily, but dropping back into his chair when Bob attempted to link their fingers together.

 

“Please, stay,” he whispered. “And it’s just _Bob_ , remember?”

 

“I remember.” Dopinder’s brow furrowed. “But that doesn’t change the fact that I shouldn’t have said what I said. It was terribly forward of me. ”

 

“Maybe it was, but,” Bob chuckled softly, pulling Dopinder’s hand up to his face, letting it rest on his cheek for a moment before pushing it down to the hem of his mask. Dopinder’s eyes widened. “But I’m _really_ _glad_ you said it.”

 

That sunshine-smile came back, brighter than ever, and Dopinder put down his champagne, his now free hand joining its mate on Bob’s mask.

 

“Are you . . . certain?” he asked, his slim fingers finding purchase in the fabric and brushing the skin of Bob’s throat in the process. Bob swallowed nervously, shivering from just that light, incidental touch. “It was not my intention to pressure you into . . . something that makes you uncomfortable.”

 

Bob crooked a half-smile and swallowed again, his Adam’s apple bobbing, brushing Dopinder’s cool fingers. “I’m not certain at _all_ and I _am_ uncomfortable. Very much so, Dopinder. But . . . if I was going to unmask for anyone here . . . I’d unmask for you. And that . . . that, I guess, is good enough to be going on with. Don't you think?”

 

Dopinder bit his bottom lip again, round eyes narrowing as he slowly pushed up Bob’s mask. "Yes, I do." For every centimeter of over-warm, slightly-damp skin revealed, Bob went paler and paler, blood draining from his face till the fabric passed his eyes, briefly. Then he was blinking at Dopinder as the mask finally eased over his sweaty, messy, smooshed, sandy curls.

 

For long moments, they sat there, staring at each other, Bob grimacing a nervous smile, his ordinary brown eyes—also round, but not _nearly_ as nice as Dopinder’s—probably gone froggy and ridiculous. Dopinder was simply cataloguing Bob’s face, still smiling, his lips parted slightly, as if he was about to speak. When he didn’t, Bob decided to leaven the expectant silence.

 

“So. Yeah. I’m no Ryan Reynolds,” he said, shrugging jerkily. “I’m just . . . Bob. And you’re probably thinking it wasn’t even worth the effort to take the mask off, seeing what’s under it.”

 

“No offense, Mr. Bob, but you have _no idea_ what I am thinking,” Dopinder breathed, eyes crinkling as his smile widened. He dropped the mask on the table and reached back up to cup Bob’s face in his gentle, cool hand. “I do not know who this _Ryan Reynolds_ is, but I think _you_ are _quite_ handsome.”

 

Bob’s sandy-colored eyebrows shot up. “Y-you do?”

 

Dopinder nodded, leaning in a bit more, his free hand settling on Bob’s left bicep. “Very much so. And I,” his smile turned a bit shy. “I like your broad shoulders and big muscles.”

 

“Oh.” Bob blushed, resisting the strong urge to flex his arms—which, though not as big as Mr. Summers’ were, were still pretty impressive—though he did square his shoulders and preen a bit when Dopinder’s pupils visibly dilated. “I _do_ favor a rather _strict_ diet and exercise regimen, which—”

 

“May I kiss you, now?” Dopinder interrupted Bob to ask, eyebrows quirked up and face hopeful.

 

“Um. _Yeah_. _Please_. If you still _w-want_ to, that is,” Bob exhaled in a whistling, breathless voice.

 

“Oh, _I want_. Very much, Mr. Bob,” Dopinder murmured, eyelids fluttering to a sooty-lashed half-mast as he leaned in some more. His hand on Bob’s arm clutched, tight and anxious. “I _want_. . . .”

 

“Me, too,” Bob sighed into the kiss he met halfway. Dopinder tasted like champagne and those amazing mini-quiches, and yeah . . . kind of like sunshine. His lips were soft and supple, parting at the first tentative touch of Bob’s tongue, to release a moan as sweetly yearning—and _hungry_ —as anything.

 

At some point during the beginning of the kiss—the _make-out session_ , because, let’s be honest, no less than two songs had gone by while they were tasting each other’s tonsils—Dopinder’s arms had slid around Bob’s neck and Bob’s hands were clenching tight on Dopinder’s waist. Then he finally pulled the other man onto his lap in a straddle that left them touching in _all_ the right places.

 

“Oh, wow, _Dopinder_ ,” Bob panted when they came up for air briefly in the middle of the third song. Dopinder leaned his forehead against Bob’s, also panting. It’d _never_ been like this with _anyone_. Not even with _Gail_. “Wow . . . _wow_. . . .”

 

“Bob,” Dopinder murmured, stealing a quick kiss and pressing their pelvises together. Which was good for another: _Wow_! groaned from Bob’s wet, swollen lips. His hands were itching to slide back from Dopinder’s waist, and _down_ , but he wasn’t sure he should. . . .

 

 _Could it hurt to ask?_ he wondered. Then remembered one of his late mother’s favorite sayings: “ _Who dares, wins, Bobby. And the more you dare, the more you stand to win._ ”

 

So, Bob screwed his courage to the sticking place. “I-is it okay if I—I mean, _may I_ —?”

 

“ _Yes_ , Bob.” Dopinder put his hands on Bob’s and pushed them around to his backside, encouraging them to squeeze until Bob took the hint and showed some more initiative. Dopinder moaned and wrapped his arms back around Bob’s neck, practically _purring_ . . . like a _very_ sexy kitten. “ _Yes_.”

 

“ _Golly_ ,” Bob breathed, beyond awed as he gazed up into Dopinder’s dark, lovely eyes. Then they were kissing again, slow and thorough, not even noticing the applause and whistles that sprang up around them—started by none other than Mr. Wilson—or the repeated flash of a camera from somewhere to their right.

 

Because for the first time ever, Bob _got it_. Totally _got it_. Mr. Wilson was, as always, right on the nose about the _important_ things in life. Grabbing the ass of someone you were _into_ was not only the _fun thing_ , but the _necessary thing._ And _Dopinder’s_ ass was . . . just _perfect_ for grabbing. And his _lips_ were so soft and sweet and _sinful_ —just _perfect_ for kissing. And the hot hardness pressed against _Bob’s own_ hot hardness was—just—

 

Bob groaned, kneading the double-handful of ass in his hands and pushing Dopinder’s slender body against his own. The other man moaned kind of desperately, his tongue stuttering alongside Bob’s.

 

“ _Please_ ,” he sighed huskily into their kiss, before locking their mouths together once more with another hungry moan.

 

“This is—really—just the _best_ day!” Bob broke that kiss to exclaim, beaming up at Dopinder, whose smile was positively wicked as he ran his thumb across Bob’s sensitive lower lip while licking his own. His eyes were so bright and fond and . . . yeah, _horny_ , that it made Bob blush yet again.

 

“You are adorable,” Dopinder whispered, pecking Bob’s lower lip chastely, almost reverently. “And I still like your broad shoulders and big muscles.”

 

Then he was melting in Bob’s arms like he was made of soft-serve ice cream. Well, not _all_ of him, obviously . . . no, some of him was still pretty hard. And _Bob_. . . .

 

Bob, panting, ground up against Dopinder and pulled him in for another kiss, because oxygen? _So_ over-rated. Who knew?

 

#

 

Peter Parker snapped another, final photo of the cute couple making out at the table—it was getting _really_ steamy, actually, the pair practically crawling all over each other, sucking face and grinding like _dey was in da club_. . . .

 

Sighing wistfully, Peter silently wished them all the best—wedding reception hook-ups were _notoriously_ a source of regret for most people—and backed away, turning to see if there were any more amazing shots of Wade and Nate—not that Peter hadn’t _already_ taken a thousand—to be had. Because the photographer Wade had hired was a fucking _amateur_ , and too busy flirting with Domino to do her job, to boot.

 

Grumbling to himself, Peter was distractedly fiddling with his Nikon’s settings and didn't notice he was about to collide with someone. And then, he already _had_ , instinctively grabbing his camera in one hand and the other person’s arm in the other, steadying both with spidey-reflexes and strength.

 

“Whoa!” Peter exclaimed—glad, nonetheless—that the camera-strap was, for once, around his neck. “Sorry, pal!”

 

“Oh, no, that’s my bad, dude, I’m— _sorry_ ,” the other guy exhaled, his wide light brown eyes widening even further behind big, dorky glasses as he stared at Peter and blinked. It was then that Peter suddenly recognized Wade's, er, maid of honor. “ _Wow_ ,” the erstwhile maid said, shaking his head a little, as if to clear it, then blinking some more. He ran a hand through chin-length, straight blond hair and smiled. “Wow, uh . . . what’s your, uh, hurry, there, brown-eyes?”

 

 _Brown-eyes?_ Peter thought, his nose wrinkling as he let go of the other man’s arm. “Not in _any_ hurry . . . Blondie. Just lookin’ for some photo-ops.”

 

“Ah, right. ‘Cause . . . camera. I see,” the other man said, pointing at Peter’s Nikon and grinning toothily. “You know there’s already a wedding photographer, right? That redhead dyking out with that goth-looking chick, over there?”

 

Peter’s eyes narrowed and his inner Social Justice Warrior poked its head out, ready for a fight. “ _Dyking out_?”

 

The other man’s toothy grin widened and he elbowed Peter, winking. “I know, right? I’m not _super_ into pussy—you know, unless we’re talkin’ _cougars_ —but even _I’d_ like to get between _those two_. Amirite?”

 

Sighing, Peter started moving away. “No, you’re _not_. In fact, you’re _so_ wrong, I struggle to even comprehend your existence. Good-bye.”

 

“Hey! Wait!” As Peter turned and tried to slip away into the dancing crowd, the other guy caught his arm. Stopping—not because he _had_ to, but because he didn’t want this loser following him around—Peter sighed again.

 

“What?”

 

“You’re, uh . . . wow . . . way more defined under that rent-a-tux you’re wearing than I woulda guessed, brown-eyes.” The other man squeezed Peter’s bicep, nodding his approval.

 

Peter threw a glare over his shoulder at this new and appalling bane of his existence. “My name isn’t _brown-eyes_ , jerk.”

 

The other guy continued to show off slightly crooked, but very white teeth. “Yeah? Then what _is_ your name, cutie? Mine is Jack. Jack Hammer.”

 

Peter’s eyebrows shot up incredulously, and _Jack_ laughed. “No, seriously, it _is_. Jack Hammer, Jr., actually.” He shrugged affably. “Most people just call me _Weasel_.”

 

“I wonder why,” Peter muttered, shaking Jack’s hand off his arm. “Well, nice meeting you, Jack. I’m gonna float around and see if I can find some more photo ops. Peace out, boy scout.”

 

“Oh, sweet! I’ll come with!”

 

Rolling his eyes and gritting his teeth, Peter started to stalk away. “You _really_ don’t have to. I’m . . . I’m fine by myself.”

 

“Yes, you _are_.”

 

 _Walked right into_ that _one_ , Peter thought ruefully.

 

“So,” Jack said as Peter’s instinct for a good shot—almost like his spidey-sense—tingled and he aimed his Nikon at Ellie and Hope flailing about on the dance floor. Snap! Perfect shot . . . capturing happiness and innocence and a lack of self-consciousness that _anyone_ would envy. “I gotta ask . . . you here with anyone? I mean, like a date? Girlfriend? Boyfriend? Inflatable other?”

 

Peter gaped over at Jack, who was still grinning—or smirking—looking like a hot mess in his ill-fitting silver tux and string tie. Wade must’ve had a _fit_ when he saw what his maid of honor was wearing.

 

“That’s—that’s _none_ of your business!” Peter spluttered, only for Jack’s grin-smirk to widen.

 

“Kinda is, since I wanna ask you to dance without some jealous prick tryin’ to kick my ass.”

 

“Who’s to say _I_ won’t kick your ass?” Peter demanded, eyes narrowing again. Jack’s smirk stretched into some new expression that he probably thought was charming.

 

“Ah, don’t be like that, baby. You strike me as more of a . . . _lover_ , than a fighter.” Jack’s eyebrows waggled in such an over-the-top, over- _done_ lothario-leer, Peter’s annoyance and offense spiked up to flat-out _rage_ for a moment. . . .

 

Then, suddenly, a lone snort escaped, forcing Peter to cover his mouth. But not before a giggle escaped right after it—one that was clearly loud enough for Jack to hear, for the other man’s toothy grin turned knowing and his left eyebrow quirked wryly.

 

“Huh? Huh?” he said, mugging as if Peter was about to take a picture of him. Peter rolled his eyes and didn’t even bother to stifle the other giggles that were threatening to escape. He just stood there, snickering and guffawing goonishly, the way he almost _never_ did, anymore, while Jack watched him with relaxed bemusement.

 

“So,” Peter said, when his giggles and snorfles had slowed to something that allowed for talking. “ _That’s_ your big play, huh? This is your game? Be _so_ annoying and offensive, it circles back around to charming?”’

 

“Ah.” Jack waved a hand modestly. “I don’t play games. But I know my strengths, and being charming with words and, like, debonair and shit? That’s just _not_ something I excel at.” He shrugged. “What I _do_ excel at is annoying the _shit_ out of people—and the more annoying I am, the more I like someone. And sometimes . . . yeah, when I’m with the right people, it kinda works its way back around to charming.”

 

“I see.” Peter dug in his pocket for the lens cover for his Nikon. When he found it and capped the camera, he looked back up at Jack, a small smile of consideration on his face. “You must like me _whole lot_ , then.”

 

“Well, I don’t _know_ you,” Jack said reasonably, smiling again. This one was sincere and almost shy. “But I think I’d like to.”

 

“Based on what criteria?” Peter let his right eyebrow drift up. It was the same look he gave his students when he filled in for the professor he TA’d for.

 

“Hmm, well,” Jack said, stepping closer to Peter, his eyes rolling in a hapless, almost adorable manner. “I won’t lie and say that I haven’t noticed that you’re . . . _en fuego_ , dude. I mean, you’re easily the hottest guy in here. Even with that checkered bowtie—which, by the way, I kinda wanna pull off with my teeth—and that ugly plaid cummerbund. You’re also kinda clumsy, like me, which turns my crank, for some reason. You’re obviously smart—quick with a quip, which is sexy as fuck. And,” he tilted his head and stared directly into Peter’s eyes as if trying to get a read on his damn soul. “And your _eyes_ are . . . _Jesus_. You’ve got eyes like a Bollywood starlet. I just wanna _stare_ into ‘em for, like—”

 

“Hours?” Peter finished. He’d actually heard that line before . . . quite frequently. Not the Bollywood starlet part but the staring part. Proof positive that guys were _all_ the same.

 

“I was gonna say _ever_ , but, yeah . . . we could start off with a few hours, get to know each other properly. Maybe dance a little,” Jack allowed with unflappable nonchalance. Peter blinked. Then blushed. Then looked down at his camera.

 

“I—I—”

 

“Can’t dance?” Jack chuckled. “Yeah, me neither. Not really. But hey, maybe if there’re two of us out there, flailing around like total spazzes, it’ll look like we know what we’re doing.”

 

And with that, he held out his hand.

 

Peter stole a glance at Jack’s stubbly face and the somewhat disheveled rest of him, in that ill-fitting silver tux. He was about Wade’s height, four inches taller than Peter, kinda chubby and hairy and _awkward-looking_ , even standing still. His hands were large, but gentle-looking and his smile—now that it wasn’t that smarmy smirk—was actually. . . .

 

Nice.

 

Those glasses, huge and hideous, looked powerful enough to see the distant future. And Jack _still_ had a tendency to squint myopically while looking at semi-distant things, Peter had noticed.

 

Overall, he was a sort of dumpy wise-ass who knew just how smart he was and just how charming he _wasn’t_. He probably had a bad habit of _under_ -thinking despite his intelligence and was likely, even as they stood here, stoned, if his reddened scleras and the faint, green-dank scent that attended him were any indications.

 

He was funny and he _knew_ it, and played to his strengths, rather than pretended to be someone he wasn’t. And he clearly didn’t give two shits what anyone else thought about him, assuming they’d take him or leave him, according to their own tastes.

 

A classic underachiever, by everyone else’s standards, probably. But more likely just a man with nothing to prove to the rest of world, in his own eyes.

 

Jack Hammer was pretty damned content with who he was.

 

In other words . . . he was _exactly_ Peter’s type. Exactly the kind of guy Peter’s inner SJW _knew_ he should steer clear of . . . but somehow, he never did.

 

 _And really_ , he asked himself flippantly, _why start tonight?_

 

He took Jack’s hand and the other man grinned delightedly, leading Peter out nearly to the center of the floor. Just then, the song— _Sweet Caroline_ —turned into _Some Enchanted Evening_ (the DJ was apparently born in 1852, and a glance at the DJ booth did nothing to change Peter’s mind on this), and everyone’s dancing slowed, partners moved in closer to each other, arms wrapped around bodies, and heads leaned together.

 

Noticing this, Peter looked up into Jack’s eyes to see the other staring down at him as if asking for permission. Peter cleared his throat and stepped closer, into Jack’s personal space, placing one hand on Jack’s shoulder while the other clasped Jack’s hand firmly. Still grinning, Jack pulled Peter in close—as close as he _could_ with the Nikon between them—his free hand settling on the small of Peter’s back. Slowly, hesitantly, they began to sway in time to the music.

 

“So . . . got a name to go with those gorgeous eyes?”

 

Peter flushed, but tried to affect the same nonchalance Jack did. “Peter Parker.”

 

Jack’s eyebrows lifted. “ _You’re_ Wade’s _Baby Boy_? His Petey-pie?”

 

“Oh, God, Wade _talks_ about me?” Peter’s flush deepened as Jack laughed.

 

“Uh, _yeah_ , he does. Fuck _me_ , and here I thought you’d be this big bruiser, like Nate!”

 

“Oh? And why’s that?”

 

“Well, you’ve seen Wade’s type.” Jack nodded toward the newlyweds, who were lost in each other’s arms. And eyes. Well, _lenses_ and _eye_. “And he had the hugest crush on _you_ , for a long time. So, natch, I assumed. . . .”

 

“Ah.” Peter rolled his eyes. “Well, I guess I should be flattered that he went against type just to perv on lil ol’ me.”

 

“That’s how _I’d_ look at it. Man, and the way he’d wax poetical about your ass . . . holy shit, I’m surprised your ears weren’t constantly burning!”

 

“Who says they _weren’t_? _Jesus_ , Wade,” Peter muttered, and Jack laughed, his hand on Peter’s back tightening as he pulled Peter fractionally closer.

 

“I’m, uh, a bit hurt? That he never mentioned me to you?” Jack said, fishing, but sounding not at all put out. Peter smiled a little.

 

“Well, Wade never names names, but he’s told me a _few_ stories that I suspect had you in them. Do you or did you, at one point, tend bar in Upstate New York?”

 

“Indeed, I did.” Jack’s big grin shone out once more and Peter was almost unwillingly charmed. “That fucker’s tab is _still_ open. He owes me, like, twenty-eight thousand dollars.”

 

Peter laughed and after a moment of watching him with something like pleasant surprise, Jack joined him.

 

Their laughter tapered off and they danced the rest of their dance in silence, sneaking smiling glances at each other.

 

The next song the DJ chose was _Splish Splash_. Around them, everyone began shaking their asses and swinging their hips and laughing. Peter smiled wryly and Jack made a face. But neither of them stopped their slow swaying.

 

“What? Don’t like Bobby Darin?” Peter teased.

 

“Nah, he’s fine, it’s just . . . _Splish Splash_ is kinda _not_ vibing with the sort of mellow you and I were working on, you know?”

 

Up went Peter’s professor-eyebrow. “We were working on a mellow?”

 

“Oh, yeah. Totally.” Jack’s face turned ever so slightly pink and he looked down for a moment. “At least . . . I’d kinda _hoped_ we were.”

 

“Hmm,” Peter said noncommittally. Jack looked up, a nervous smile on his face.

 

“Listen, Peter . . . what say we get outta here for a bit, huh? I mean, not far, just . . . find a quiet place for the two of us to—”

 

“Fuck?” Peter blinked up at Jack with fake-innocence thick enough to go sledding on. The pink in Jack’s cheeks grew more pronounced.

 

“I, uh, was gonna say _get baked_ , but, yeah . . . that works, too. Like, _so well_.” Jack’s face was eager, his eyes lit up. The hand on the small of Peter’s back slid reluctantly to the curve of Peter’s ass, with obvious intent to slide further down. Peter allowed himself to feel flattered, despite the fact that at least some of Jack’s eagerness was undoubtedly for his weed. Not that Peter, who smoked mostly to keep his damn spidey-senses from waking him up constantly when he actually managed to _sleep_ , had any room to judge.

 

“How about _this,_ Jack Hammer: we find somewhere private, get baked _first_ , and then . . . we’ll see what our mellow allows?” Peter was the one to waggle his eyebrows, now, but kept the rest of his face straight. “And we’ll take some of those mini-quiche things with us, because . . . _munchies_ , amirite?”

 

Jack’s smile was ear-to-ear and almost dazed, as he let Peter back them off the dance floor and toward a side exit. “Hot, smart, funny, _and_ you speak my language? Baby,” he sighed happily and his big hand settled _firmly_ on Peter’s ass, squeezing lightly, then a bit more surely. “You had me at _get baked first_.”

 

#

 

“Hey, you?”

 

Stan the Man only just barely heard the voice calling up to his booth. He really ought to keep his hearing aid cranked up, he supposed, but then the music seemed too loud, if he did.

 

And finding a decent middle ground had proved impossible, thus far.

 

Sighing, he made sure the current song— _I’m Henry VIII I Am_ —had a good ways to go, before stepping carefully down the eight steps to lean out of the booth and his breath caught.

 

Before him, stood a _vision_.

 

“Well,” he said, running a hand over his thinning white hair and smiling wide—after discreetly making certain his dentures were still in place. “Hello, young lady.”

 

The woman standing near the door to the booth—wearing a lavender dress with little purple flowers all over it, matching shoes, and large, incongruous sunglasses—was standing patiently, head tilted to the left. Her curly grey hair seemed to shine silver in the hall lighting.

 

She smiled just a little, full lips curving ever so slightly. “I’m neither, but thanks for the compliment.”

 

Stan turned up the wattage on his smile. “I just call ‘em like I see ‘em, gorgeous. So, uh . . . what can Stan the Man do ya for?”

 

“Got a favor to ask, Mr. The Man.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“Mm. Got a song I want you to play last. For my friend—the, uh, one in the Princess Di replica-wedding dress.” She nodded toward the dance floor and Stan looked. It wasn’t difficult to spot the, er, _bride_.

 

And damned if that _wasn’t_ an exact replica of Princess Di’s wedding dress, too. Well, except for that slutty slit up the side and all the . . . cleavage. . . .

 

Stan shook his head. _To each their own_ , was his motto. That, and _don’t spit into the wind_.

 

“Sure, if I have the song on my Macbook, I can play it. That is . . . if there’s something in it for me. . . .” he waggled his eyebrows meaningfully.

 

The woman frowned a little, _her_ eyebrows lifting. “ _Something_ . . . meaning?” she asked, cool and regal.

 

Stan, as had ever been his curse, came over shy and began to blush. This was exactly why he’d lost his job at the strip club all those years ago. Not that the job before that—FedEx delivery person, on the heels of his big move from New Mexico, after that weirdness with the giant robot went down—had gone too much better. “Well . . . I was thinking maybe I play some Frankie or Dean-o, and we—you and me—could take a spin out on that dance floor. Trip the light fandango.”

 

Those eyebrows lifted even higher, but she seemed amused now, rather than offended. “Sinatra? Martin? And I thought _I_ was old,” she muttered, sighing, and Stan sighed, too. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard _that_. Though _this_ _dame_ was the best looking one who’d turned him down in recent memory.

 

“Never mind me, I guess,” he said, shrugging with fake-nonchalance. “Sure, I’ll play your song if I have it. No problem. What song?”

 

That frown turned into a small, almost smirky sort of smile. “Eh. I’ll tell you after we take our spin on the floor,” she said, holding out her hand.

 

Stan gaped. Looked at her hand, then back at her face. Then back at her hand. Then he opened the booth door, ready to take her out for that dance before she changed her mind. But he immediately remembered he had to actually _set the playlist_ before he did so, and fit Frankie and Dean-o in there, as well.

 

“Oh, uh . . . just a minute, doll-face!” he said, dashing—okay, not _quite_ —back up into the booth.

 

“Sure thing, Stan the Man.”

 

A minute later, he was all but leaping out of the booth, taking her hand—it was slim, small, and soft, and she smelled like violets—and leading her to the dance floor.

 

As _Volare_ began to play, seconds later, Stan the Man pulled his partner close, inhaled that sweet violet-scent, and the two of them cut quite a rug, to the apparent delight of everyone watching. Especially the catcalling, whistling, er, _bride_.

 

#

 

“So.”

 

“Mm. . . ?”

 

“Married.”

 

“Mm. . . .”

 

“Fancy wedding, and everything.”

 

“Mm _hmm_. . . .”

 

Wade, his head resting on his husband’s shoulder— _not_ the metal one—was clearly content to be lead about the slowly emptying dance floor. So Nate did that for a few more minutes, kissing the top of Wade’s silk-covered head. Then he glanced over at their daughters—Ellie nodding off, sitting in the middle of the floor with Hope next to her, head in Ellie’s lap, sound asleep—a smile coming to his face. As time went on, the expression felt more and more natural. Nate took that as a good sign. A sign of things to come.

 

Though he would remain ever vigilant, Nathan Christopher Charles Dayspring Askani'Son Summers-Wilson would accept the hope and happiness that was _not_ his birthright, but had nevertheless _become his_ almost by accident.

 

Though, in the end, as he well knew, all things served providence.

 

Wade sighed. “I am _so_ fucking happy, Nate.”

 

Nate hummed, tightening his embrace. “Even though we had to make do with mini-quiches instead of pigs-in-a-blanket?”

 

Wade snorted. “I . . . may have over-reacted to that little change in plans. But those quiches were the bomb-diggity, yo! I’mma get the recipe before we leave!”

 

Nate sighed and shook his head. “My eager little houswife.”

 

“Damn right, baby.” Wade’s hands slipped down from their hold on Nate’s waist, till they were clutching meaningfully at his ass. Nate looked down at his husband questioningly. Wade was smirking clearly through the silk mask.

 

“Do I even _want_ to know?” Nate asked.

 

“I dunno, _do_ you?” Wade teased. Nate rolled his eyes and sighed again. He could probably guess what Wade was going to say, but Wade liked it better when he played along.

 

“Tell me what dirty thoughts are running through that impossible-to-read mind,” Nate whispered and Wade bobbed up on his toes—even with the heels, there was still a bit of difference between Wade’s 6’2 and Nate’s 6’8—to whisper back:

 

“I want you to blow me while I’m wearing this dress and then I want you to bend me over a piece of furniture—doesn’t matter _which_ piece, don’t really care—push up the dress, and fuck me till I come again.”

 

Nate’s brows lifted. “That . . . is not an unreasonable request,” he finally said, and Wade let out a tiny squeal, bouncing happily in Nate’s arms. “However . . . who’s going to watch our kids while we . . . break in the dress?”

 

Wade’s brow clearly furrowed. “Huh. Well, Bob—”

 

“Probably not, since he disappeared almost forty minutes ago.”

 

“Shit’s sake!” Wade grumbled. Then brightened. “Well, Weas, I guess—”

 

“Last I saw of _him_ , he was following Peter out a side door. And they were carrying the last of the mini-quiches.”

 

“ _And_ they took the quiches? Sonuvabitch!” Wade exclaimed. “Fine. At least _Blind Al_ —oh, you can’t be _serious_!”

 

Nate, who’d been shaking his head _no_ , shrugged apologetically. “She and that elderly DJ took off together ten minutes ago.”

 

“But—but—” Wade wibbled, his lenses wide, his mouth turned down in a visible frown. “I wanna get bent over in my _wedding_ dress! On my wedding _day_!”

 

“Wade—”

 

“Nathan, hubby, love of my life . . . if you care _at all_ about my sanity, you’ll come up with a way for us to fuck without abandoning our children on the dance floor,” Wade pleaded, his hands, in their soft, silken gloves, coming up to cup Nate’s face. “ _Please_?”

 

Nate sighed yet again, scratching his head. “But Wade . . . you’re not—and you know I _adore_ you—not even _remotely_ sane by anyone's standards.”

 

“Semantics,” Wade dismissed, then glared. “And _really_ , Nate? That’s _all_ you took from what I just said?”

 

“Okay, okay—look, I’ll . . . I’ll come up with something. Just . . . give me a minute to think.” Nate shook his head again, and Wade grinned, bobbing up to plant a silk-covered kiss to Nate’s chin.

 

“ _That’s_ what I like to hear, hubby. Fifty-six seconds, and counting,” he added, laying his head on Nate’s shoulder again, and pressing his hard-on against Nate’s thigh.

 

“But no pressure, right?” Nate mumbled, trying to think past his own automatic response to Wade’s obvious horniness. It was hard. Pun intended.

 

“Hmm. None at all, sweetie. Forty-six. Forty-five. Forty-four. . . .”

 

#

 

All told, it took Nate nearly _two minutes_ to come up with a workable plan. Then another two minutes to negotiate some babysitting duty with an unimpressed Domino and yet another future _ex_ -Mrs. Domino—during which Wade was absolutely no help, just popping and locking to _Shoop_ , the last song of the evening, and apparently Wade's "jam"—who were, when all was said and done, rather gracious about it.

 

So, by the time the girls were safely in the care of Domino and _Tami_ —who was also the photographer who’d taken all of _ten_  wedding photos in between flirting with Domino like it was her day job—Nate was rock-hard and dragging a giggling Wade out toward the first place he could think of.

 

The coatroom.

 

The checker was, thankfully, nowhere in sight. So Nate pulled Wade around and shoved him up against the wall next to the coatroom door _hard_ , pushing up the mask to kiss his husband thoroughly. Wade moaned happily, his hands going right to Nate’s groin.

 

“Ooh, is all this for _me_?” he asked coquettishly, squeezing Nate’s cock like the tease he was. Nate growled, swooping in to wreak some hickies.

 

“And then some,” he agreed, his hand finding the slit in the dress—it went practically up to Wade’s crotch, and Wade was _not_ , as usual, wearing any underwear—and feeling his hot, hurried way to Wade’s dick. That was good for a nice, long groan from his husband.

 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Wade breathed, laughing. “Blow-job later, Nate. Fuck me _now_.”

 

“You know it.” Nate pulled Wade tight against him for another kiss, fumbling for the doorknob then turning it.

 

They stumbled into the dark coatroom and Nate automatically flicked the light switch, only to hear two gasps that _weren’t_ his _or_ his husband’s.

 

He and Wade found themselves staring into two pairs of bright, shocked, guilty eyes. In two bright, shocked, guilty faces.

 

Then the other, familiar pair of canoodlers were sitting up—sort of . . . the paler of the two was behind his dark companion and they were both on their hands and knees—trying to cover each other with coats from the enormous pile they were screwing on, and all without disengaging from each other.

 

“Oh. Em. Fucking. Gee! _Bob_?! _Dopinder_?!” Wade exclaimed, sounding utterly scandalized. The paler man— _Hydra Bob_ . . . who knew he was _blond_?—flushed. Literally _all_ _over._ Then he tried on a shit-eating grin, while trying to cover his companion, who Nate assumed was Dopinder.

 

“M-Mr. Wilson!” Bob laughed a little. “Um. This isn’t what it looks like!”

 

“Well, it looks like you’re fucking _Dopinder_ in a pile of my friends’ coats!”

 

“Oh.” Bob sighed, so red he looked like he’d been sunburned. “Then I guess it _is_ what it looks like.”

 

“Jumpin’ Jehosephat!” Wade covered his face with his hands for a few seconds. Bob turned redder, somehow, but Dopinder smiled sweetly—drunkenly—at Nate and Wade, then began rocking back against Bob in a way that made the other man’s eyes roll back into his head. Then he was clutching at Dopinder’s hips and holding him close.

 

“Stop _fucking_ him!” Wade screeched irritably, waving his arms like a large, flightless bird. Bob groaned and hung his head . . . but started thrusting again.

 

“Sorry, Mr. . . . _Wade_. No can do.” Bob took a deep breath and opened his dazed, pleasure-hazy eyes, meeting Wade’s gaze steadily nonetheless. “I think I’m in love!”

 

Dopinder sighed contentedly, his eyes slipping shut and his legs sliding a little further apart. Bob hissed and started thrusting faster, closing his own eyes once more.

 

Wade began to sputter. “Love?! _Love_?! What the _shit_ —who—who even _brings_ _lube_ to a _wedding_?!”

 

Nate cleared his throat and started to speak, but Wade hushed him sharply, probably aware of the irony in that question, considering that he’d had a special pocket sewn into the dress specifically for a small tube of Astroglide.

 

“Actually, Mr. Pool,” Dopinder said around measured breaths, biting his lip and making a scrinched up face as Bob rocked into him hard. “We f-found it in, um, _Mr. Pool’s_ coat pocket.”

 

And when Dopinder opened his eyes and nodded at Nate, Wade spun around almost accusingly. Nate's shrug was unapologetic.

 

“I’m always prepared,” he said simply. Then he took Wade’s arm by the elbow. “C’mon, Wade. Let’s go find somewhere else.”

 

“But—but—” Wade stammered as Nate dragged him out of the coatroom, flicking off the light switch as they went. “That’s my lackey! And my cabdriver!”

 

“They seemed to be hitting it off pretty well,” Nate noted, pulling the door shut and dragging Wade down the hall, toward a small storage room—as usual, Nate had studied the blueprints of the building in which their reception was held . . . _always_ prepared—not too far from the coatroom.

 

“Bob’s not supposed to _have sex_! And certainly _not_ with my precious little Dopinder! Not on the first date!” Wade sounded traumatized as Nate continued to drag him along. “I didn’t even get to have _The Talk_ with him!”

 

“Which one?”

 

“Either of them!” Wade wailed as they turned a corner.

 

“ _You_ were the one cheering them on when they were swallowing each other’s faces at the table, earlier.”

 

“Well, there’s a _big_ difference between some drunken spit-swapping and _fucking in the coatroom_! Ugh . . . I can _never_ unsee that! And we are _not_ wearing those coats again!”

 

Nate grunted, then smiled, stopping at an inconspicuous door. “Damn. I’m surprised Bob had it in him. Although . . . I guess _Dopinder’s_ the one who had it in him.” Snorting, Nate put his hand on the knob.

 

“You’re not funny, Nate. You’ve _never_ been funny,” Wade said with real asperity.

 

“My humor's always on-point,” Nate informed his husband with a straight face, then turned to let them into the storage room. As soon as the door opened, a dank, green smell hit Nate and he frowned. “Hey, is that—”

 

“ _Weas_ , that quiche-stealing bastard!” Wade growled, storming into the dim, junky space. Nate followed, suddenly taken by a mildly _bad_ feeling.

 

Wade, still resplendent in his silk princess-dress, with its long train, stalked past some stacked chairs and a podium, and turned a corner made by two tables, only to gasp. Sighing, Nate joined his husband and shook his head at the sight before them.

 

Peter Parker, naked as the day he was born, was straddling a bare-from-the-waist-down Jack Hammer, riding him hard and fast, sweating and groaning as he bounced on Jack’s dick. Jack, wide-eyed and clearly stoned out of his gourd, merely lay there, hands sliding up and down Peter’s leanly-muscled thighs, and murmured dirty, almost inaudible encouragement in between giggling and gasping. His glasses were so smudged Nate could barely make out his eyes.

 

“ _Petey_?” Wade wibbled in horror, hands coming up to cover his mouth. “Baby Boy?”

 

Peter’s back arched at an impossible angle, till he was blinking up at Wade—upside-down—with wide, stoned, pleasure-dazed eyes.

 

“Hiya, Wade. . . .” he giggled, running a slow hand up his chest. The other was shamelessly fondling his balls. “There’s, uh . . . room for two more, I guess . . . I mean, I could blow one of you and . . . well, I’ve never done double-penetration before, but I’ll try anything once.”

 

“No-no-no . . . not _my Petey_!” Wade breathed in a shaky voice, his shoulders sagging. Peter sat back up, leaning forward over Jack to kiss him. Jack mumbled swears into the kiss, his hands grabbing Peter’s ass, squeezing and pulling his cheeks apart. Wade covered his eyes as he and Nate got a glimpse of Peter Parker they’d _never_ expected to see.

 

“C’mon, guys, either hit it, or quit it,” Jack said over Peter’s shoulder, nodding down at Peter’s ass then back the way they’d come. "But don't hang around just to harsh our mellow, 'cause . . . holy _GOD_ , his _ass_! I think I'm in _love_!"

 

Wade’s mouth dropped open and stayed that way for a hot minute. Then he looked at Nate pleadingly.

 

“No,” Nate said, laying down the law. He took Wade’s elbow again and steered his husband away from temptation. “I don’t share.”

 

“But—it’s _Petey_! _Peeeteeeeey_!” Wade was probably glancing longingly back at the tawdry scene behind them. Nate could hear Peter’s renewed groans and grunts, and Jack’s giggles and swears. He briefly wondered if that offer to share Peter had been sincere. . . .

 

Somehow, he doubted it. He rather thought that Jack Hammer wasn’t one for sharing, either.

 

“ _You an’ me_ , Nate, baby, we could DP him _together_! And Weas could have his mouth, and—”

 

“We’ve _had_ this talk, Wade, and I. Don’t. Share.”

 

“God, you’re so _mean_!”

 

Once the door shut behind them, Nate dragged his pouting, petulant, grumbling husband back toward the coatroom, then past it.

 

“Where’re we goin’?” Wade demanded sulkily.

 

“There’s a janitor’s closet—”

 

“Ew!”

 

“One that isn’t actually _used_ , Wade. It’s just an auxiliary where they store extra mops and stuff.”

 

“Oh. Well. I guess that’s okay, then.” Wade sniffed loftily, then sighed. “I just wanted to have sex with my husband, Nate . . . is that so wrong?”

 

“Of course it’s not,” Nate assured him tenderly, pulling Wade into his arms as they walked down the hall. Wade sniffed again and leaned into Nate. “We just . . . had a bit of bad luck, that’s all. Third time’s the charm, right?”

 

“I guess,” Wade mumbled.

 

“No need to _guess_ , Mr. Summers-Wilson. I _know_. In a few minutes, I’m gonna be _all up in_ that tight little hole, making you _beg me_ to fuck you harder.”

 

“Mm . . . I like the sound of _that_. . . .”

 

“I know you do.”

 

They stopped for a few moments to kiss—a surprisingly tender and sweet one—before moving on. A minute later, Nate’s hand was on the doorknob of the janitor’s closet. “Now,” he said, giving Wade the filthiest leer he could manage. “Prepare to be violated.”

 

Wade clapped his hands together gleefully, then as Nate started to turn the knob, they both heard a soft, but distinct moan come from behind the door. A _woman’s_ moan, breathy and . . . _familiar_.

 

They looked at each other, mouths hanging open.

 

“Huh.” _Now_ , Nate’s shrug was apologetic. Wade heaved a heavy sigh, shaking his head.

 

“If our luck holds the way it _has_ _been_ , I’m bettin’ Blind Al and Stan the Man are doin’ the _old and nasty_ in there, as we speak,” Wade said flatly, shuddering.

 

“It could be empty?” Nate said without much hope. The lenses of Wade’s mask seemed to give him a waspish glare. “Or . . . it could be rats?”

 

Wade crossed his arms and pursed his mouth. Nate bit his lip then let his shoulders sag. “But it’s probably Blind Al and Stan the Man fucking. You’re right.”

 

“I _know_ I’m right. I’m _always_ right. If _you’d_ remember that, this marriage’d go a _lot_ smoother than it has the past ten minutes,” Wade huffed, then, sweeping his train behind him, he stalked off back down the hall. Nate hurried after him, feeling over-large and faintly ridiculous in his tailored tux. The hard-on of . . . jeez, had it really only been _ten_ _minutes_ ago? Well, that was a thing of the past.

 

Wade lead them back to the reception hall, where things were definitely winding down. As soon as Ellie and Hope—running around Domino and Tami’s legs—spotted them, they dashed and toddled over, squealing: “Daddy! Daddy!” and “Pa! Pa!”

 

Nate stepped forward, catching Ellie as she jumped, hugging her close and kissing her forehead. Ellie laughed and said: “Yuck!” wiping her forehead, then laying her head on Nate’s shoulder with a yawn.

 

Wade, meanwhile, had caught Hope, swung her up into his arms as she squealed happily, then pulled her close for a hug and a noisy kiss on the cheek. She giggled and flailed, her big blue eyes almost squinting shut.

 

“You guys have fun, today?” Wade asked. Ellie nodded sleepily and Hope squealed again.

 

“Fun!” she exclaimed. Wade kissed her other cheek, giving her another big hug.

 

“’M sleepy, Papa,” Ellie mumbled into Nate’s shoulder, her small arms winding around his neck.

 

“Seep! Seep!” Hope crowed, with a dismaying amount of energy. Wade’s gaze met Nate’s and they both smiled a little. It’d be _at least_ a three-story night for Hope.

 

Ellie, thank goodness, was already half-asleep.

 

“Yeah, we’ll be leaving soon, little one," Nate promised. "We just have some good-byes to say—including Domino and . . . Tami—and then we can start heading out. Okay?”

 

“Okay.” Ellie’s sleepy burble turned into another yawn and a snort.

 

Wade moved closer to Nate, bouncing up on tiptoe to nuzzle his cheek before kissing it fondly.

 

“You know,” he murmured as if having a revelation. “I _could_ just keep the dress on till after the sprogs are asleep. . . .”

 

“Spog! Spog!” Hope cheered, drooling all over herself and her pretty blue dress. Nate smiled, kissing Ellie’s riotous curls and wrapping his other arm around Wade’s waist, tugging him in for a quick kiss—with one for Hope, as well.

 

“And our bedroom has _plenty_ of furniture for bending someone over,” Nate agreed as Wade’s free arm draped low around his waist. Then Wade was squeezing his ass possessively.

 

“You’d better _wreck me_ , Nathan Summers-Wilson,” he whispered huskily.

 

“For _my_ bossy little housewife? I think that can be arranged.”

 

“Mmm. . . .”

 

Sharing promising, sultry smiles—Ellie asleep in Nate’s arms and Hope gabbling to herself in Wade’s—the newlyweds made their way back to their receiving table to begin the interminable good-byes to their guests.

 

(Admittedly, though, since _at least_ half their guests seemed to have snuck off with each other, the line of well-wishers went a lot faster than it otherwise might have.)

 

The Summers-Wilsons made it home in record time: the girls were maneuvered into their jammies and both snoring by the time their fathers kissed them good-night. Then Nate went to brush his teeth and when he came back out, Wade, still wearing the princess-dress, was fast asleep, sprawled and splayed in the center of the bed, his mask half pushed up.

 

Nate simply stood in the doorway, watching his husband sleep—and snore . . . and drool, a little—some quiet, eternal part of him observing the way his wary, once quite bitter heart seemed to fill to overflowing . . . then fill some more, because. . . .

 

 _Wade_.             

 

Sighing, Nate loosened his black bowtie as he approached their huge, reinforced bed. He sat on the edge and leaned down to kiss Wade’s scarred cheek, lingering to nuzzle it tenderly.

 

“I know I don’t say it as much as I should, but . . . _I love you_ , Wade Summers-Wilson. I love you very much.”

 

Wade mumbled in his sleep, smiling a little and Nate—who, like Wade, slept rarely and never for long—kept vigil beside him for the rest of the night: guarding his husband’s sleep and dreams as best he could, and letting his own heart continue to overflow.

 

END

**Author's Note:**

> Who knew this'd become a 'verse? You should check out the rest of said 'verse and, while you're at it, [follow me on Tumblr](https://beetle-ships-it-all.tumblr.com/)!


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